martes, 15 de octubre de 2013

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;I lift my lids and all is born again.(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,And arbitrary blackness gallops in:I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bedAnd sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:Exit seraphim and Satan's men:I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,But I grow old and I forget your name.(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;At least when spring comes they roar back again.I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

Love Is A Parallax

'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:train tracks always meet, not here, but only in the impossible mind's eye;horizons beat a retreat as we embarkon sophist seas to overtake that mark where wave pretends to drench real sky.'

'Well then, if we agree, it is not oddthat one man's devil is another's god or that the solar spectrum isa multitude of shaded grays; suspenseon the quicksands of ambivalence is our life's whole nemesis.

So we could rave on, darling, you and I,until the stars tick out a lullaby about each cosmic pro and con;nothing changes, for all the blazing ofour drastic jargon, but clock hands that move implacably from twelve to one.

We raise our arguments like sitting ducksto knock them down with logic or with luck and contradict ourselves for fun;the waitress holds our coats and we put onthe raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun who insists his playmates run.

Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,would have me swallow the entire sun like an enormous oyster, downthe ocean in one gulp: you say a markof comet hara-kiri through the dark should inflame the sleeping town.

So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and damesin dubious doorways forget their monday names, caper with candles in their heads;the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies inscattering candy from a zeppelin, playing his prodigal charades.

The moon leans down to took; the tilting fishin the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish blessings right and left and cryhello, and then hello again in deafchurchyard ears until the starlit stiff graves all carol in reply.

Tell now, we taunq where black or white beginsand separate the flutes from violins: the algebra of absolutesexplodes in a kaleidoscope of shapesthat jar, while each polemic jackanapes joins his enemies' recruits.

The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':though prima donna pouts and critic stings, there burns throughout the line of words,the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusionwhich dreamers call real, and realists, illusion: an insight like the flight of birds:

Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowingthe secret of their ecstasy's in going; some day, moving, one will drop,and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that healsonly to reopen as flesh congeals: cycling phoenix never stops.

So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shellsof withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells and heavens till the spirits squeaksurrender: to build our bed as high as jack'sbold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks away our rationed days and weeks.

Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,and god or void appall us till we drown in our own tears: today we startto pay the piper with each breath, yet loveknows not of death nor calculus above the simple sum of heart plus heart.